


Antegrade Momentum

by Markala, Runar



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, a complicated friendship, not romantic - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-01-15 02:44:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21246200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Markala/pseuds/Markala, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runar/pseuds/Runar
Summary: Kelas Parmak was a nobody when they caught Enabran Tain's attention. Before they knew it, Tain was shaping them into the perfect little obsidian order doctor, obedient and discreet.





	Antegrade Momentum

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to my fic Rebuilding Sandscapes (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16965285/chapters/39871080). The plot is heavily influenced by the outstanding Emyn Nant Nefydd (gwenynnefydd)!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kelas Parmak wasn't always a witty, capable doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though this is a prequel, you can still read it as a stand alone. However, I do recommend reading this alongside Rebuilding Sandscapes, as it gives context to several of the interactions.

Kelas knew their place in society.

Reminders of everything they couldn't have was a regularly occurring part of Kelas' daily routine as they pass by apathetic parades of indulgence and luxuries they could never hope to attain. Today Kelas laid on their makeshift slab of a bed, an unforgiving thing of cheap duracrete and ratty blankets, and stared up at the dark of the pock-marked and dilapidated high ceiling above the hovel's too-small windows. Most of which were broken open, the orange streetlight shining through and illuminating Kelas' features - the fragile neck ridges, the uneven chufa, their brown eyes that always contrasted oddly against the darker grey of their skin. A long profile shadow was cast by their broad, flattish nose. Kelas could smell the cool night breeze drift in, and found the scent of quick-roasting tekal fish with yellow sauce; a delicacy they’d only ever experienced vicariously across the yawning distance of money and caste. A breeze made its way through the empty space and rustled Kelas' long white hair. Irritably they shook their head to dislodge it. 

_Grrrrrrrm-!_

Their stomach churned at the hint of food. A peckish frown settled on Kelas' face, maybe if they laid back and thought of surgery, their stomach would cease its entreaties, Kelas mused. Echoes of passersby laughter floated through the high windows of the derelict warehouse up from the street. Kelas' thoughts turn back to the pride-crushingly obvious: the sharp contrasts of the circumstances of their life compared to those of the bustling city life around them. Not feet away from them were people living comfortable, safe lives free of hunger and cold. 

Undeniably, Kelas was alone. They are tacitly unable to register for government-controlled housing, seeing as it would require a partner of the outwardly-female persuasion, and would require Kelas to implicitly promise to produce offspring. Kelas found a certain untenability in even the _idea_ of officially masquerading as a man, or a woman, for the rest of their life... much less bedding a woman, even for the sake of better housing. Besides their inability to foster a generic family dynamic, another more concrete hurdle to housing, was Kelas' lack of steady, gainful employment. Which was a whole other set of complicated issues. 

Such employment opportunities came and went like the shifting winds, especially for those without familial ties. Support that would otherwise provide money, and strategic connections. Not that Kelas' parents were well off, they had died of Iridovirus, a preventable disease, shortly after Kelas' emergence. With no other relatives to rely upon, a young Kelas had few options but to eke out a meager existence on the city streets. Lack of funds and references had made Kelas' education come to a halt. The only employment that an orphan could find did not allow for upward movement through Cardassia's social ladder. Ever since they were young, Kelas had wanted- still wants to be a doctor. More than anything. Even if only to prevent others from dying due to a lack of medical care. Looking listlessly at the bare grey wall, Kelas reminded themself that becoming a doctor was a pipe dream without a sponsor. They were going to have to continue making due with stolen medical tools and cobbled bandages.

Not that they had much in the way of possessions overall, in fact their entire life fit neatly into the small travel bag they'd found years ago. Inside was three sets of clothing, some basic hygiene items, a beat-up file decoder, a small collection of discarded medical datarods, a homemade lock decoupler, a battered electronic feed disruptor, and a home-brewed scale sealant.

Kelas turned on the hard surface of their bed, grumbling, and trying not to think of how their bag distinctly lacked anything edible. 

Their uneasiness was due more to discomfort than restlessness, though there was plenty of the latter. Kelas found themselves unable to sleep and began toying with the idea of rereading the medical texts. Maybe the section on esophageal trauma would be off-putting enough to keep the hunger at bay. But the sharp hunger pang seizing Kelas’ abdomen said otherwise and made them to curl in on themself. Sure enough a headache emerged to join in the choir of pain. Biology telling Kelas to seek nutrients. 

Willpower could only bring them so far, it seemed, so with a resigned sigh Kelas made unsteady moves to stand. Kelas had tarried for too long in their attempt to sleep the hunger away.

The easiest food to scavenge was the local flora, limited as it was in the heart of a bustling metropolis. There was a variety of technically edible, if distasteful options. From street side weeds to the stolen labors from private gardens and trees. When one was able to shed their pride, the plants provided a relatively easy source of fiber, sugars, and other vital nutrients. Kelas had yet to get caught purloining the occasional vegetable from a private citizen's garden by avoiding drawing too much attention in the nicer parts of town. It was difficult but not impossible to forage while unmolested by the arm of the State. Acquiring enough proteins and fats, however, was a whole other kettle of rokassa.

At the moment Kelas couldn't reliably trap or slaughter any of the common pests of the city, much less prepare one beyond. Cooking resources were limited to sticking a skewered vermin in a fire-barrel and hope it doesn't have diseases or questionable bacteria. Kelas' best bet for protein was always thievery. Within' walking distance was a woman called Parit who sold nutritional foodblocks at the cost of providing raw material pods and half the finished product in exchange for the use of her questionably-repaired antique replicator. Private replicators were typically reserved for those of wealth or status... or in Parit's case, desperate ingenuity.

Kelas' understanding of replicators was quite basic: matter couldn't be created nor destroyed so they required raw material as building blocks that are rearranged at the atomic level into useful things, like tools or food. Older and less expensive replicators didn't create complex items. Also, Kelas knew that the patterns that replicators need in order to create an item could be just as elusive as the raw material pods required to make it. 

Parit's fee of half the finished product sounded a rather steep price to pay, but a full compliment of raw material pods could produce enough food to sustain Kelas for months with careful rationing.

_'The risk's are always worth it,' _Kelas always felt that poverty was a prison sentence, so if they needed to risk being detained for theft then they might as well try to get a few meals out of it.

With a decision made, Kelas moved quickly and gathered their essentials. The lock decoupler, electronic feed disruptor, and scale sealant went into their bag. Everything else was hidden around the old storehouse. Once ready they went out through a side door that led out into a rather claustrophobic alleyway. With almost-smooth strides they made an effort to conceal any outward signs of hunger-shook limbs. The streets Kelas passed were dim, the lights not so well-kept in their part of the city. In fact, the only public city lights that were maintained were the ones that provided light for government cameras. Though, foolishly, this made it easy to determine where exactly each one was located. It was an decent time of day to break-in and steal raw material pods, as work shift changes were done and the streets were rather barren but for the unemployed, the shady and the desperate.

Like Kelas.

The sun was low enough for Kelas to take advantage of the poor lighting which helped to obscure the wannabe-doctor's features. To further help hide their identity Kelas quickly fixed their hair into a simple yet typically feminine plait, also that evening they were wearing their most feminine clothes. To add a finishing touch to their look Kelas paused in their walking to smear their thumb with some dirt and darken their chufa for good measure, a poor imitation on woman's makeup. All Kelas had to do after that night was to keep their head down and present as outwardly masculine as possible for the next few days and they'd be golden. 

There were three potential homes Kelas had been casing lately, their owners' all barely above the poverty line and with equally shit security. All three were purposefully farther from Kelas' current home base, reducing Kelas' chances of getting recognized by a local. Additionally all the families were employed in the Ministry of Transportation, and with the new skiff transit station development that had popped up in the area, overtime was expected and certainly not optional.

Kelas approached the first home which was rather nice, not too messy. It was a small, one-floored, single-family home sandwiched between the outer edge of the slums and the incrementally richer and safer parts of the city. There was a cramped, high-walled garden area to the side with a locked gate, which Kelas noted could serve as a viable entryway. Attempting to appear nonchalant they noticed new paint and refitted windows. A degree of guilt passed through Kelas at the realization that the new fixtures were probably from someone else's break-in. Then their gaze was drawn to the worst of it, lights and dimly lit silhouettes moving from behind curtained windows.

"Slet." Kelas cursed. 

With a frown Kelas soldiered on, reminding themself to stay hopeful. Their belly grumbling unhelpfully all the while. Needing a socially acceptable reason to suddenly change direction, Kelas made a show of responding to a nonexistent communicator before doubling back and moving onto a different street. After walking at least a couple blocks they neared their second target. The streets were dingy here, and the lights flickered with whining hums, but there were fewer pedestrians. It all seemed rather deserted and almost somber. Kelas moved, as their body ran on autopilot, mind fuzzy with pain and instinct. In hindsight the series of events about to unfold had been sloppy but there was little Kelas could do about it after the fact.

The house came into view, it was faded with cracked windows-

_Tnkh-chch!_

A sudden clatter of falling trash to their left stole Kelas' gaze.

There stood a child, waifish and thin, hunkered down near the property line of an empty lot and peering up from behind the bulk of a parked skiff. Kelas faltered in mild surprise, but recovered and carried on. It wasn't any of their business what the most-likely-a-street-orphan was doing here, so long as they didn't bother Kelas.

Distracting sounds followed Kelas as they attempted to assess the condition of the house, but they could hear the curious and impromptu stalker. Surely the orphan knew that following a strange adult was not safe... or maybe Kelas' efforts to look like an inconspicuous, upstanding citizen left a lot to be desired. Nonetheless, Kelas couldn't find it in themself to shoo the stray shadow away, maybe the child would learn a thing or two by watching.

Gaze flickered back to the house. _'Focus Kelas.' _

All signs pointed to it being empty, its occupants busy at work, hopefully. The street was clear but for a single street camera, hardy but outdated, passing over the street mechanically. So Kelas ended up circling around the target's neighboring home to approach it from the back. The little orphan stray trailed behind, and tripped over something; not that Kelas had turned to look, despite their sudden uptick of concern.

The yard was small, unkempt, like the inhabitants' had neither the time nor care for a garden if the dying ferns and desiccated flowers were anything to go by. Kelas suspected the latter though. Overtime is impossibly demanding.

Kelas stopped at the raised bit of ground near the corner of the dwelling's rear wall exactly where anticipated. One of the upsides of such tightly-regulated government-provided housing was that they were all the same. Same three generic floorplans, same mass-produced security system where the system's coupler was connected to the same buried power transponder. Predictable and hilariously exploitable weaknesses that served all manner of roguish misbegots.

Out of their bag came the scale sealant, an easy blend of common herbs turned into an uncommonly thick moisturizer paste that would dry into a flexible layer atop the scales. Kelas stayed slightly turned out, if only to give the child a clear view of what they were doing. When done, they make a subtle show of 'accidentally' dropping the sealant bottle instead of pocketing it, replacing it will be surprisingly easy, the only real loss here was the bottle itself.

_‘Consider it a gift,’_ Kelas didn't dare say aloud.

Next on the agenda was configuring the decoupler. The closest window is five feet to the left, and fixed with a government-issued lock. The decoupler charged up in no time and with one last look around their surroundings Kelas initiated the electronic feed disruptor. They set it atop of the raised ground covering the buried power transponder.

Not a sound, seconds tick by and Kelas had five to seven minutes at best until the backup power kicked in, but the window alarm was disabled and the time was now. This was the most nerve-wracking part, because the feed-disruptor was always unverifiable. There were no visible or audible cues to indicate the alarm was disabled. The only surefire evidence of equipment failure would be made evident when they were arrested or pursued. Kelas didn't believe in their own athleticism or wit enough to hope they'd be able to outrun the arm of the State, but they could try maybe... They would deal with the issue when it eventually arose. 

Needless to say, a silent alarm and unreliable equipment would be all but a death sentence to the intrepid home-invader.

With swift practiced movements, Kelas used the decoupler to pop the window-lock. Kelas then practically threw themself inside, flopping over the threshold onto their back in an ungainly pile of their own limbs. Flustered, Kelas hoped to every deity they didn't believe in that the child hadn't been privy to the landing, before making their way through the dark of the house to the replicator. They bump into some furniture along the way, a table, nearly tripping over a chair, and Kelas suppresses the urge to curse aloud at every thrice-damned cheap piece of garbage furniture inside this dwelling.

They curse in their head instead, and vowed that if they ever acquired a house of their own it would have exactly three pieces of furniture, a bed, a cabinet-shelving unit, and a stove, none of this table-lamp-chair bullshit meant to trip poor robbers.

Reaching the wall with the replicator and with feeling around, the access panel was pried open by desperate hands and all material pods within reach snatched and stuffed into Kelas' bag.

All the while Kelas' ratcheting anxiety rattles shrieking at them to flee.

_'Go go go go go now-!'_

Without redoing the window lock Kelas stumbled once again ungracefully through the window, but managed to avoid falling and catching a faceful of dirt. It wouldn’t do to wander back out into the camera's view all dirty and bedraggled. Riding high on the adrenaline of a successful heist and eager to escape the scene of the crime, Kelas snatched up their electronic feed disruptor from the ground and made their way swiftly back to the street.

Kelas forced their shoulders to relax, and their steps to be light as they casually re-emerged on the street to make their way downtown, walking fast and homebound. Almost three blocks away from the crime scene now, and so close to freedom-

Spine chilling horror seized Kelas as a death knell tore down the street. It was the unmistakeable siren of the city's crime prevention vehicles. Kelas' heart froze. Escape was close enough to _taste_. Kelas forced themself not to break out into a full sprint, instead briefly turning toward the noise to verify what they suspected. Sure enough the government officials stopped at the robbed house.

_‘It would be normal to show some interest in the drama, right?’_ Kelas justified before they turned fully to get a good look at the commotion.

"Ahhhhhhhsghhhhhhh-!" Shrieking and crying was the orphan from earlier, suddenly wrenched out of the house by an offiical, before a sudden crack of a fist to the temple had their small body falling limp in their captor's grip.

Kelas, who knew they couldn’t gawk for long without casting suspicion upon themself, turned and left. Automatically their feet took them back to the hovel in which they lived as they puzzled over the events. The agents couldn't have taken so long to arrive if Kelas'd tripped the alarm right? Kelas mentally retraced the heist, the street, the disrupted transponder, the window-

The _window_, it had been the _sletting _window, they'd left it unlocked!

The child must have climbed in when Kelas left, thinking the security system was still disabled. Of course the child wouldn't know why Kelas had put the disruptor on the ground instead of taking it with them inside. Fuck.

Kelas arrived back to their shambled, quasi-abandoned home, and once inside their bag fell listlessly from their fingers onto the floor.

There was no small amount of guilt roiling inside Kelas' chest. They got a child, probably much worse of than themself, arrested and injured today, all because they'd focused too much on their own escape. They could have shooed the kid away, or given them a quiet warning. A short explanation. Literally anything was better than what Kelas had decided to do, which was ignore them. Inconsiderate, short-sighted, selfish-!

A worry worn Kelas collapsed upon their slab, face-down, not even bothering with the blankets. It was hours until they felt able to move again, with the sun shining angrily into their eyes. Hands shaking from the after effects of adrenaline withdrawal.

_'Ugh.'_

It was late morning, the sun had risen and showed signs of a mercilessly hot day even by Cardassian standards, and Kelas was in possession of a veritable _bounty_. They end up spreading their haul over the their blanket, if only to count and calculate how much supplies the blocks would give them. Enough food too last at least a month or more, enough material to replicate clothing, maybe even a portable sonic shower if Kelas could come up with the fab-patterns.

But...

Kelas couldn't help but feel, bereft, and a bit like a shit to be frank.

_'Save the child. It's your responsibility,' _their conscience rasps.

But if Kelas was caught, then they'd both be in trouble, them and the child, and render the heist pointless.

_'Coward.'_

The child would need medical treatment, it's not like the agents' would provide anything of the sort for them in a holding cell. If Kelas sacrificed the material pods for the clothes and the portable shower, they could end up getting a passable medical kit out of it...

_'That's risky though,'_ Kelas can't help but hedge themself, _'getting back out of a holding cell wouldn't be nearly as easy as getting in.'_

Kelas wasn't too bad of a sneak and trespasser though...

_'And what am I supposed to do after?' _Kelas realized penultimately, _'the child might continue to follow me, they'd be my responsibility! I can barely care for myself, much less a child!'_

Kelas always seemed to be riding the line of thriving in the face of poverty, and dying like a pest. But despite this, Kelas felt the sharp urge to break the child out of jail, take them into their hovel home, teach them what little Kelas knew.

_'Be realistic, you soft-hearted fool,' _they berated themself.

After some brow-scrunched moments warring with indecision, they compromised, _'I'll treat their wounds, and feed them, that should be enough, right?'_

It could never be enough, but Kelas could live with it, perhaps. That meant the food needed to be replicated. They sucked in a sharp breath, and pushed concerns aside; they had places to be today after all.

It was time to pay Parit a visit. Kelas stepped outside, and greeted the day, the weight of guilt slowly crushing them all the while.

A sigh, "slet."

* * *

The midday heat bore mercilessly upon Kelas during their several-block-journey to Parit's home. Quick breaks on the way were spent huddled in the meager shade. Parit's home was a bit ramshackle, but resembled a home far better than Kelas', with chipped and peeling walls and cracked glass windows.

From a distance Kelas heard her before seeing. Parit was cursing like a soldier on her porch, hunched over and tinkering with a sputtering contraption Kelas couldn't identify.

"Parmak!" Parit is a spinster of middle-age and mischief, greeted Kelas with a sort of warm gruffness, "I thought you went and died."

"Well, pardon me and my hesitation," Kelas groused sarcastically, inelegantly dropping their bag onto the porch step.

"Replicator again?" Dark eyes regarded them brightly.

"Food and some medical supplies," Kelas tried to keep their tone light looking around in an attempt to be blasé, "the usual."

A quirk of the lips was all Kelas needed to see to know they'd said too much, Parit was too sharp by half where Kelas was painfully awkward.

"Parmak asks for medical supplies!" Parit laughed heartily, more to herself than Kelas, "you're still trying to be a doctor!"

There wasn't all that much to unpack in there, the concept of a delinquent like Kelas Parmak attaining the the esteemed position and skill of a doctor was absurd. Responses like Parit's was a common but ultimately harmless judgement on Kelas. They weren't sure which was worse, the casual disbelief and amusement, or sneering prideful contempt. Not that either did much to affect the self-esteem Kelas lost an age ago. 

"What's with the dirt on your chufa?" Parit barreled on inelegantly, seeing as Kelas had waited too long to respond, "if you wanted some color, you could've asked."

Too quickly and giving away far too much about Kelas' sudden bout of self-consciousness, they wiped at their forehead almost furiously as their far-off-neighbor looked on in amusement, having paused with her tinkering.

"Didn't mean anything by it," Parit's entire body language was frustratingly amused and Kelas' horribly embarrassed, "it looks good on you, though I've seen better hair."

What was that about Kelas' non-existent ego? Reflexively, Parmak shook their hair out of the messy plait until it hung loose.

"Must be a talent of yours, Parit," Kelas started defensively, making to pick up their bag in a show of false bravado, "chasing away customers."

In hindsight, Kelas knew that the tactic probably would've worked better if Parit hadn't been so familiar with them. It's not like Kelas had _other_ people who would share their replicator other than her, and she knew it. 

"Oh stop acting tough," she was already leading Kelas into her home, effectively telling them to cut the shit, "I can practically see your ribs from here."

Kelas complied, slinking a few steps behind her and nearly tripping over a mat as they avoided their reflection in the hanging mirror.

"So what'll it be today?" Parit cajoled while standing aside the replicator, a battered thing of time and testament.

"Three liters of water in a hardcase and fifty protein rations," Kelas rattled off the items quickly while expertly reaching under the machine to install the raw material pods before they added, "also, what patterns do you have for medical supplies?

"This might just be the biggest haul you've ever brought in," a low whistle at the sight of the material pods as Parit scrolled through the replicator's pattern screen for anything resembling medical supplies.

_'Not that you'd know what qualified as such,'_ Kelas thought uncharitably.

"'S been getting riskier out there and the government scum are less picky these days," Parit continued amiably in her irreverently crude manner that she seemed to handle everything, even her gossip, "did you hear? They picked up a boy last night for stealing pods! Not even at his age of emergence!"

Kelas froze, and then proceeded to mentally hurl themself down the mineshaft aptly-labelled 'panic.'

"You'd think they'd rather focus on real threats to society," Parit wasn't even looking at them, and had scrolled past yet another replicator pattern, "awful fate, but heh, oh well right?"

Was this how it would end? Was Parit going to turn them in? They should have waited before trying to hand off goods that were still hot! _Stupid stupid-!_

"Pffffffttt hahahhahahahah ha hah-!" An odious, barking sort of laughter cut through Kelas. "I should've recorded your face, Parmak! You look ready to piss yourself!"

Kelas felt their face flush hot with a combination of quickly mounting irritation and even more embarrassment.

"I'd rather you focus on the patterns over idle gossip," their words came out more strained than stern, accompanied by a deep frown.

"Oh, calm down, 's not like I'm going to turn in my best customer," the nosy woman reassured unreassuringly, "after all, you're about to give me fifty orders of food! Who cares about some orphan taking the fall for you anyways, better them than you!"

The replicator fired up, and spat out its first protein block.

"Surprisingly heartless," Parit said with a pride didn't pierced Kelas with shame, "didn't think you had it in you."

_'Oh, fuck no.'_

Kelas was going to help that kid if it was the last thing they did, forget crime prevention, and forget the risk, because Kelas refused to be something that Parit of all people would be _proud_ of.

Soon enough she finished making the food, and replicated a sort of home-medkit that was usually outfitted in residential kitchens. Unaware of Kelas' sudden change in resolve, Parit grew interested in using their portion of the material to make some rough bandages in order to and quote, "Keep the sand outta my cuts, stings worse than you can imagine!" 

It took everything in Kelas to resist the urge to roll their eyes hard enough for them to pop out and bounce away.

Clearly, Parit always seemed to get a kick out of toying with the younger Cardassian, winding them up and watching them stew. Somehow she always knew what to say in order to cut them down to size. Kelas wouldn't be able to recall a single word of the casual and drolling exchange that followed, before the impish woman finally released Kelas from her company.

But stepping off Parit's porch and back into the beating heat of the afternoon, Kelas felt nothing but elation. Elation because Kelas now had a cause, a mission, and song in their soul! They would help the orphan!

Kelas Parmak wouldn't fail, not today!


End file.
